Sons of Hamsters and Minions of Unusual Numbers
by Frost on Maples
Summary: Pre-movie. A different take on the infamous Budapest incident. Explosions, shooting, fighting, chases, escapes, giants (well, big men), villains, BAMFs, candy and Tchaikovsky. Not a kissing story, and there's no livestock thrown.


**Sons of Hamsters and Minions of Unusual Numbers**

**Author's Notes: **I don't own the Avengers, Marvel/Disney do. People who don't believe that smell of elderberries! Yes, consider this a warning - Monty Python and Princess Bride references are about to happen.

This is intended as a standalone, but does very loosely connects with my other Avengers stories - strictly speaking, it could be seen as a prequel to _Partners_, but it isn't essential to read _Partners_ to enjoy this.

Many thanks to the bunch at the Beta Branch for much-needed editing and encouragement. Any mistakes are solely mine.

**Budapest, Hungary, 2009**

The first hint of a problem was almost the last. Somehow, the mark was tipped off that the red-haired server on the catering staff wasn't just serving champagne. As people swirled to the Waltz of Flowers, the man's lieutenant had quietly grasped her arm, beckoned over another server to take her tray, and firmly escorted her from the reception along with two members of his 'security staff'.

It happened so quickly and smoothly that none of the guests noticed the contretemps. Clint was impressed - if he had been scanning the crowd with his scope instead of watching her, he would have missed it until she started chattering as they dragged her out of the room. They were immediately out of sight, going in to the interior of the mansion.

"What's going on? Who are you? Why are you doing this?" she babbled, flawlessly the frightened, bewildered innocent.

"Sentinel, Spider has been made," he said quietly into his headset. "I don't know how. I've lost visual."

"_Understood_," Coulson's calm voice replied. "_Stand by to extract_."

"Spider, get ready," Clint said. "Plan A." He heard her sigh - she was quite capable of dealing with her captors, but would be reluctant to call it quits on gathering some intelligence. He was sighting his target when her wire transmitted the sound of a door opening. He hesitated as she suddenly hissed with pain, and there was a thud with a scraping wooden sound. _Tied to a chair again_, Clint guessed.

"Um, if you didn't like the vintage, all you had to do was say so," she said, maintaining the terrified babbling. "I don't need six big men with guns and knives to tie me to a chair to tell me if you're not happy."

More men - not unmanageable, but not good. Clint adjusted his quiver for a different arrowhead. "Plan B."

"It's not necessary…" she started, as much to him as to her captors. The crack of a slap cut her off, and she cried out like the terrified server she was supposed to be. A second slap was accompanied by the sound of the door opening and closing again.

"Lajos, you must pass on my gratitude to Andras for this gift." The voice was chillingly familiar. "Such a prize for me. The Black Widow." There was a second of loaded silence.

"Vitaly Demidov," Natasha said, all pretense dropped. She lapsed into Russian. "*_What foul stench has lured you out of Moscow?*"_

"Sentinel, are you getting this?" Clint whispered urgently. Demidov was a big name of one of the major russian crime syndicates - he seldom left Moscow. Before Coulson could reply, another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

"No need for insults, Agent Romanoff." Another familiar voice, this time with a drawling accent. "I thought you would appreciate being reunited with a fellow countryman."

"Gregory Knight." Her voice was cold. "I see you have survived your defection." Knight was a SHIELD agent's nightmare: a former agent and handler, he was intimately familiar with protocols and procedures, could accurately predict agents' actions, and make well-educated guesses of locations and personnel. He sold his talent and knowledge to the highest bidder, and had been the downfall of several agents and operations. He was on many private 'most wanted' lists.

"Tell me," Knight said, his voice sounding closer, "did Fury succeed in making you a team player, or do you still work solo?" There was a crackle in the signal as there was the sounds of a scuffle, and then part of the sound died. "A wire. They did make you a team player."

"Sentinel, he found the main wire," Clint reported. The main wire was the long range transmitter, allowing Coulson direct contact: without it, he was blind to the situation. Fortunately, they had persuaded Natasha to wear a smaller, secondary wire - it had a much shorter range, but was also much harder to find.

Knight had continued speaking. "I recognize this style - there's backup somewhere in the city, and now they can't hear us. I checked for likely safe house sites when I arrived. I have teams at strategic points in the city: with the wire's frequency, it will only take them a few minutes isolate it and deal with your backup."

"Sentinel, clean house - NOW!" Clint whispered. It was a code all agents dreaded: the safe house wasn't safe, destroy all evidence of SHIELD and evacuate.

Coulson was eerily calm. "_Abort. Red flag going up._"

Clint turned his attention back to the job. He deliberately took a deep breath before sighting the first target and drawing, ignoring the sounds of Knight and Demidov interrogating his partner. His targets were chosen carefully - he preferred to conserve his arrows. The first two were silent but for the tinkle of broken windows, timers mutely counting down. The third one, however, made a spectacular fireball out of a car. He scaled down the side of the building unnoticed in the confusion. The second arrowhead detonated as he hit the ground. According to the building schematics, the small basement window he had targeted was for the furnace room - as planned, the explosion touched off the heating fuel, rocking the mansion to its foundations.

It was rather pathetic that he only had to deal with two guards to get to the inner room where they were holding her. His first impression when he opened the door was of a cat playing with a pair of mice. There were bodies on the floor (none of them Knight, he noted with regret), and she danced around the last two wavering thugs. As he watched, she cuffed one on the ear, moving so quickly that the blow had landed before he even started to raise his hands in defence.

"Stop playing, it's time to go," he announced, almost pitying the morons. She turned to him as she casually blocked her victim's belated response - was that a pout? She said nothing, however, and the two men joined the rest of the unconscious bodies on the floor in short order. He tossed her the small pack with her things. "Are you okay?" he asked, eyeing her bloody nose, split lip and bruises with concern.

"I'm fine," she said, rolling her eyes at him. The third explosion rocked the building as she joined him at the door. "Any sign of Knight or Demidov?" she demanded.

"Nope," he replied. "Red flag's up. It's all aborted."

She snorted in irritation. "We could hunt those bastards down now, ourselves. It would solve many problems."

"I think there's concern about whether or not the city would be still standing when we finished. This trip has already ruffled feathers in the Hungarian government."

She rolled her eyes again in exasperation at all bureaucrats, Hungarian or otherwise, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "They might have a point."

"We'll deal with the bastards some other time," he said. They paused at the outside door as he scanned the mayhem in the courtyard. "Looks like they're evacuating the guests out the front door, and all the servants and guards are going out this way." His keen eyes sorted the chaos as she quickly changed into her uniform, strapping on both bracelets and holsters. "I'll say this - they've got a good person in charge outside. Much better than inside. They've already got snipers on each of the rooftops, probably at least one on the roof over our heads. East, a gunman on second floor, fourth window to the right: another west, first floor, fifth window to the left. Two at the courtyard gate, likely more in the alley on the right, and a half-dozen on the move with the staff."

She nodded as she loaded her pistols, checked the clips. "Snipers first?" she asked.

"Yep. Ready?" he asked as he pulled out four arrows and knelt beside them. She nodded, pulling out her smoke bombs. He picked up an arrow, sighted the first target and paused.

"Go," she said softly. He fired up at the snipers, shooting as quickly as he could set arrow to string. As he fired the third arrow, she threw the smoke bombs, scattering them around the courtyard. As the last two bombs hit the ground just outside the door, she leaned out and calmly picked off the shooters in the buildings to the east and west, ducking back in before the overhead sniper could react. Clint already had the last arrow to string - he stepped a half pace out the door, waiting for the sniper to lean out for a downward shot, trusting his partner to pick off the guards who spotted him. They ducked back in the door in unison to let the body drop. The smoke was starting to get thick enough to affect visibility - it swirled as the body hit the ground.

He knelt and retrieved his arrow as she stood watch, scanning the smoky air for targets. "Let's go," he said. She said nothing but matched his steps, scanning the right as he scanned the left.

Clint suspected that Knight had taken a hand in matters - the external security exhibited none of the sloppiness of their counterparts inside the mansion. The guards at the gate had stayed in position, calmly waiting outside for prey to stumble out of the smoke, with numerous fellow guards backing them up. It was a classic setup. Easily dealt with.

"Run for that demolition site on Tarcali street?" he asked, bow ready.

She nodded. "Good cover, lots of routes we can take from there."

With practiced ease, the pair moved into position out of sight on either side of the gate. In unison, they each tossed a pair of flash bangs - the first pair was carefully calculated to land at the feet of the guards closest to the gate. The second pair targeted for the team of extra guards behind worked perfectly, to judge by the sounds after they went off. Natasha pulled out her last smoke bomb as Clint drew a specialized arrow from his quiver.

The flechette arrowhead was heavier than his usual ones - he lofted the arrow over the wall and watched it plummet down rapidly. Natasha carefully timed tossing her bomb so it hit the centre of the intersection seconds before the arrow's impact. Smoke billowed through the air, obscuring vision and adding to the confusion as the arrow released a deadly cloud of flechettes in the midst of the waiting men.

"Go!" she snapped, Glock ready as she scanned the rooftops. There was still at least one sniper out there - they could only hope that the smoke cover lasted until they got to the demolition site.

As the partners started to run past the groaning bodies on the ground, Clint checked the side street. He was dismayed to see yet more armed men running towards them.

"How many men with guns does this guy have?" he grumbled. "If there's a store called 'Minions R' Us' around here, we should blow it up before we go."

Natasha shrugged as she ran alongside. "Keeps things interesting."

"Interesting? I don't think that word means what you think it means." Clint frowned as he scanned the rooftops.

"Move!" she shouted, shoving him behind a parked truck. Fresh gunfire from a new angle thudded into the truck.

_"Hawk, status report." _Clint's earpiece crackled back to life with Coulson's voice.

"On our way, Sentinel," he answered. More bullets thudded into the truck as he spoke, making the pair draw back farther behind the vehicle. "We've been delayed - some late arrivals decided to throw us a party. You?"

_"The house is cleaned."_ An explosion thundered in the distance. _"Actually, the house has been eliminated. I'm on my way to the extraction site. Bravo Alpha team is on the ground."_

"Oh gawd, I have to deal with McClennan's piloting?" Clint groaned.

Natasha hit his shoulder as she reloaded. "I don't care if he's Santa Claus if we get out of here intact."

"The dude may say ho ho ho, but the ho he's referring to doesn't make him the jolly guy in red that gives you presents. In fact, you should worry if he says he has a present for you."

"He hasn't tried since the mistletoe incident two years ago," she said smugly.

"What? And I missed it?" She smirked at him. "I miss out on all the fun," he grumbled.

_"Hurry up,"_ Coulson said. _"We've worn out our welcome here."_

There was a lull in the shooting, and they made a break for it. Lead peppered the ground under their feet as they ran until his last explosive arrowhead made most of the minions dive for cover. They were almost there when fire burned into Clint's lower backside - he flinched but kept running despite the burn. _More than one sniper, _he thought. It wasn't until he followed her in sliding behind the broken wall that he realized the exact extent of his wound. "Sonovabitch!" he growled as he joined his partner crouching behind the wall. She risked a quick peek over the wall - the minions hadn't caught up yet, but the snipers were alert enough to make escape impossible for now.

"You're hit?" she asked, concerned.

"Nothing major," he replied, gritting his teeth.

"Let me see," she ordered.

"It's nothing," he muttered. "Just a graze."

"Turn around!" she ordered.

There was nothing for it - when she used that tone of voice, orders were obeyed or there would be death. Wincing, he turned around and closed his eyes - he knew what was coming. She leaned closer, paused. "I don't believe it. They shot you in the -"

"The upper back thigh," he interrupted her. She was suspiciously quiet. "It is NOT funny." She was still silent. "It isn't _that _bad, is it?"

"It's just a flesh wound."

"That better not be in the Holy Grail sense," Clint grumbled.

"Don't worry, you're definitely not black knight material."

He turned and stared. "I knew it. You do have a sense of humour."

She glared back at him. "Let's finish this up so you can go home and get Meier to kiss it better."

"Did someone say my name?" a new voice asked over their earpieces.

"Meier? Took you long enough."

"Who else would help your partner rescue your cute butt?"

"As if you came to the rescue alone, Meier," another voice cut in.

"Yeah, Ramirez, but I got here first." Over the chaos, Clint heard the distinctive crack of Meier's MSG90, and one of the rooftop shooters hit the ground. "You're still a ways out."

"Snotty sniper superiority," Ramirez grumbled. "You just don't like to get your hands dirty - or is it because you like to use your scope to ogle asses?"

"Cut the chatter, people," a third voice ordered. "Bravo Alpha team is moving in. Barton, Romanoff - status report."

"Nice to hear your voice too, D'Amato," Clint growled. "Our status: our "easy intelligence gathering mission" is fucked, the safe house is fucked, and the whole fucking city is crawling with well-equipped gun toting minions, because hey, they work for gun runners. Oh, and the Russian mob guy Demidov is here, with Gregory Knight. All we need is the bunny with long pointy teeth to make today perfect."

"Never fear, the BAt is here," another voice chimed in.

"Shut up Duclos," D'Amato snapped. Not quite under his breath, he muttered, "Damn acronym." All business, he continued. "Barton, Romanoff, what's your precise location?"

"Coordinates are: N47 29.91618 E19 2.45946 - sorta, our GPS was shot up."

"Demolition site near Bertalan on Tarcali street," Natasha spoke up, as she warily scanned the street. "South end, twenty feet east of the intersection."

"We're north of you - Ramirez, DeVries, go three blocks west and turn south. Duclos, with me, we're going straight south. Meier, you're our eye in the sky, pick them off when you can. McClennan, keep the jet secure."

Clint didn't bother to reply, because at that precise moment the gun-toting minions found their location and opened fire while blocking all potential escape routes with remarkable efficiency. He lost track of time as he shot arrow after arrow as quickly as physically possible. Beside him, Natasha fired with equal efficiency, pausing only to slide in new clips. Dimly, over the cacophony he heard D'Amato telling them to hang on.

It was during a brief lull in the gunfire that he heard it. He eyed his partner, to see a slight smile on her face.

"You're - you're having fun!"

"What're you talking about?" she asked, once again carefully impassive.

"You were humming!"

"Was not!"

The gunfire started again.

"Yes, you were," he said, ducking. "You were humming Tchaikovsky. Waltz of the Flowers. I know it well - you've made me sit through the Nutcracker three times." He shook his head as he resumed fire. "We're pinned down, I've been shot, the safe house has been blown up and you think this is fun. _Fun_."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

_It's not fair that someone so large is also fast_, Mark DeVries thought to himself as he scrambled to keep up to his partner. For all that he stood over six feet tall, the lanky agent always felt small beside the man. The swarthy Ramirez was only a few inches taller, but his heavily muscled frame easily massed double that of DeVries, and his craggy, scarred face made him even more intimidating.

"Two blocks, then left?" Ramirez asked.

"Right."

"I thought it was left?"

"I mean, correct - " DeVries started, then saw the smirk and shook his head. "Never mind. Smartass."

Ramirez just grinned as they turned the corner… to run headlong into a team of black-clad men carrying guns. Behind them stood Gregory Knight and Vitaly Demidov. Both groups froze.

"Gentlemen, I believe these men are agents of SHIELD. Time for you to earn your pay." Knight pointed, sneering.

Before anyone else could react, Ramirez charged forward, sending guns and bodies flying, his face a grim, determined mask. Belatedly, DeVries remembered that before he had joined the team, Knight had been their handler: when Knight had defected, three of its members had been killed. He followed his partner as closely as possible, shooting one man before two more tackled him. His own gun was knocked aside, and he was too busy fighting to reach for his backup. With a quick check over his shoulder he could see his partner holding his own…and no sign of Knight or Demidov. He heard a frustrated bellow from Ramirez as he struggled to throw aside his opponents. "Knight was here - he's on the run from our location! Meier, can you get eyes on him?"

She sounded frustrated when she replied, all humour gone. "I can't see him!"

D'Amato, hearing the exchange, ordered, "Ramirez and DeVries, stay on course to Barton and Romanoff. Meier, watch for Knight."

DeVries heard Ramirez growl in frustration, and the thug in front of him went down extra hard.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Heads up!" Duclos chirped. "Men with guns." D'Amato joined her in ducking behind the corner of a building.

"That didn't take long," he said grimly. "Romanoff and Barton have kicked a hornets' nest this time." They leaned out to return fire, making their opponents dive behind a truck parked on the street.

"Let's do this the easy way," Duclos said. She pulled out a grenade and pulled the pin. She tossed it under the vehicles, counted, "One. Two. Five!" and ducked as the bad guys ran away. The explosion shook the ground under their feet. Cautiously, D'Amato leaned out to see the smouldering wreckage of not only the truck, but also two cars, plus shattered windows on all of the nearby shops.

"New grenade?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"I'm always making improvements," she said primly as she followed his lead down the street.

They only got a few blocks further before they met resistance again. D'Amato sighed as she looked pleadingly at him, grenade in hand. "Okay, but that better be a small one." Once again, the ground shook.

"That wasn't quite what I had in mind." He eyed the flaming wreckage. "You really like blowing things up, don't you?"

"That's why they pay me the big bucks," she said smugly, trotting along beside him. She looked down the street and her eyes lit up. "Hey, look, more guys to blow up!"

"Wait," he ordered. "Let's try shooting first." Shots were fired, then both parties found cover.

She didn't even wait to ask him. "I'm really hoping that this finishes on time," Duclos chattered as she lobbed the grenade. "When we finish here I start my leave. Cindy promised to make her famous pot roast for me if I started my leave on time."

"You've got to get your wife to show my wife how to do a pot roast," D'Amato said, ducking for cover. "Last time Anne did one, it could have been used as a bowling ball." Again, the ground shook with the force of the explosion. When they both emerged from their cover, three cars were smouldering wrecks. As he looked down the street, he could tell where they had been - flaming cars and shattered storefronts littered the route they had followed. He sighed.

"Duclos, stop blowing up stuff!"

"But the Book of Armaments - need to blow mine enemies to tiny bits..."

"No more Python. I mean it!"

"Anyone want a peanut?"

"Shut up Meier!" D'Amato paused to check his GPS. "We should be almost on top of them if we go right here." Duclos nodded and matched his pace as he started to run. They turned a corner, only to suddenly stop - two enormous men blocked the way. D'Amato charged forward before they could react, knocking the gun out of the hands of the first one before tackling the second. Duclos followed, and found herself face to face with the first one.

The goon was huge - he would have towered over Ramirez, never mind a five foot nothing explosives expert. Duclos dodged a right swing that would have knocked her into next week and jabbed back, only to be blocked. _Damn, he's fast too_, she thought. She bounced out of the way of another swing and tried a kick - she barely managed to not have him grab her leg. A quick glance over at D'Amato showed him to be similarly busy. Time for Plan D. She hated Plan D.

Dropping all of her fighting stance (and dignity), she stopped, gasped, and pointed over the goon's shoulder shrieking, "What the hell is that?"

She couldn't believe it. He actually fell for it. As he stopped and looked over his shoulder, she lashed out with a foot to the groin. With a high-pitched squeak, he doubled over and looked at her so utterly shocked, betrayed and pained she couldn't help muttering, "Sorry," before kicking him unconscious.

She turned to see D'Amato staring at her, his man in a heap at his feet. "I can't believe you did that."

"You told me to stop blowing up stuff," she sniffed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Gregory Knight was not having a good day. Not only had the meeting he had carefully organized after months of delicate negotiations between Demidov and Andras been disrupted by the Black Widow, now his former team from his days with SHIELD was on the ground, and out for blood. He checked ahead carefully, and beckoned Demidov forward.

The russian was pale and sweating, uneasy about having to improvise in unfamiliar territory. "You have a plan, Mr. Knight?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Knight replied. "SHIELD has an extraction team on the ground. That means there is transportation. Bravo Alpha was always an airborne unit. That means there's a quinjet around here, with probably only the pilot aboard. I think a quinjet will help compensate for our losses, yes?"

"Da," the Russian agreed with a predatory smile.

"There's a park nearby - that's likely where they landed." He pulled Demidov back when the russian started to angle across the street. "Stay tight to the building, keep a low profile - they have a sniper. I'm sure D'Amato has Meier watching for us, and she doesn't miss."

They skulked along, clinging to buildings. Windows in this area had been shuttered, and all was silent, increasing the illusion of a ghost town. Demidov said nothing, but edged slightly closer to the former SHIELD agent. The russian preferred concealment in a crowd, but the crowds had vanished the minute the gunfire and explosions started. After a tense ten minutes, Knight paused, pointing at the green ahead.

"People's Park. See, just like I said," Knight whispered. When Demidov frowned, he pointed again. "There. To the right, behind that line of trees, where there's extra shrubs." He smirked. "Some things don't change." Stepping ahead of Demidov, he said, "Let's go get our jet, comrade."

"That's not yours." They spun to see Agent Phil Coulson. The pistol in Coulson's hand was steady as he said, "You're welcome to board the jet. As my 'guests'. Or cargo."

"Coulson," Knight said with a courteous nod of his head. At a gesture from Coulson, he tossed his gun to the ground.

"Mr. Knight. You left SHIELD rather suddenly," Coulson replied dryly. "There are lots of people who'd like to have the opportunity to catch up with you."

"I can imagine," Knight replied with a wry smile. "Still running errands for Fury?"

"You don't qualify as an errand. More like mopping up." He shifted his attention to Demidov. "Or taking out the trash."

"I think the Council wants both of us alive," the former agent said, shifting his weight slightly. "I'm sure they have questions." Now partially behind Knight, Demidov twitched his wrist slightly to release the spring-loaded backup gun he always kept hidden up his sleeve. Knight, hearing the whisper of the spring, started to shift as the gun hit the russian's hand…

The crack of a MSG90 echoed, and Knight felt blood mist the back of his head and neck as Demidov's forehead exploded from the bullet impacting the back of his skull. He hit the ground as the body collapsed, reaching for his discarded gun as he rolled… but Coulson was no longer there. He froze as Coulson's gun nudged his temple, and dropped it again.

"Mistakes happen," Coulson said blandly as he pushed the gun away. "Even the best sniper can miss. Right Meier?"

"Um, oops?" Meier voice sounded into his earpiece. "I, ah, was aiming for his shoulder and hit his head. Yeah, that's it. Head by mistake."

"I've got this. Get back to your team," he ordered. He tapped his earpiece again. "McClennan, lock up and bring a body bag."

Knight snaked his foot around to yank Coulson's feet out from under him, and rolled to his feet to lunge for his gun again. He spun, gun in hand, firing with his trademark speed. Coulson, already back on his feet, neatly sidestepped the shot and stepped forward to seize the wrist of the hand holding the gun. A vicious squeeze to pressure points in the wrist sent the gun clattering to the ground - the agent followed up with an elbow to Knight's gut. The kevlar that the traitor always wore blunted the effectiveness of the blow, allowing him to lash back with a punch that glanced off Coulson's shoulder. A swift kick popped one of Knight's knees, effectively crippling him. Knight retaliated by tackling the agent, using his good hand to try to grab him by the neck.

With one quick, precise motion Coulson's hand slashed into the traitor's throat, shattering his larynx and collapsing his windpipe. Knight staggered back, choking, and collapsed, shock on his face as he thrashed on the ground, attempting to breathe.

"The Council will have to live with being disappointed. Director Fury will understand." Coulson watched as the life faded from Knight's eyes. Tapping his earpiece, he called to McClennan. "Change that to two body bags."

"Bring out your dead!" McClennan called as he jogged over with the bags.

Coulson definitely didn't hear the whoops from Bravo Alpha team. There was enough trouble coming from the Council for everyone as it was.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Romanoff, Barton, hang on." Meier sounded slightly winded. "I'm changing location and should be able to take the pressure off you in a minute."

"That would be very good," Clint replied. He fired his last arrow and pulled out his pistol. "The party has definitely reached time for last call."

They didn't hear any more from her until the distinctive crack of her rifle rang out and a body toppled from a nearby rooftop. Another shot cracked out, then another, resulting in a slight pause in the shooting as there was a scramble across the street for new cover.

The trapped agents rested briefly, panting. "I don't suppose they'll just give up and go home," Clint said, ruefully eyeing his diminishing ammunition.

"Not likely," Natasha said, loading her last clip.

The shooting resumed more fiercely than ever, forcing them to stay down. They heard Meier take shot after shot, but the sound that suddenly caught Clint's attention was a metallic clunk on the ground at his feet.

"Nat, run!"

"What -?" she started to ask, even as she sprang into a sprint.

"Grenade!" he shouted, following her.

They were still too close when it detonated. Clint felt a massive shove and flare of heat on his back - there was a prickling on his backside as the impact lifted him off his feet and slammed him into his partner's back. Time seemed to slow as they sailed through the air, pain in the back of his head blooming in slow motion. _Shrapnel_, he thought distantly. He saw the ground rising up to meet him - _no, wait, I'm falling_. His head slammed into the pavement with a resounding thud, and everything turned into a blur.

XXXXXXXXXX

It felt like a small eternity before Natasha could persuade her lungs to inhale. They finally responded, her gasp triggering a painful coughing. Her head cleared, and she realized that her partner was partially on top of her, his shoulder painfully digging into her ribcage.

"Barton," she said as she struggled to slide out from under him. There was no response. "Barton!"

With a painful grunt, she dragged herself free and pushed herself into a crouch over her partner. A quick scan of the area showed the result of Meier's efficiency - only bodies remained within eyesight. She ignored the shaking of her hands - there was blood, but she couldn't tell the severity of the injuries. Shaking his shoulder got no response. With a groan she rolled him over and was relieved to see that he wasn't unconscious, just badly dazed.

"Clint," she tried again. "Get up. We have to get out of here." She gently slapped his face.

He blinked, focused on her face. "Hi. You need me to get up, don't you?"

She firmly repressed the urge to smile in relief, and instead nodded. "We need to get to the rendevous."

"Right," he said. "Rest later." He sat up with a groan and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling his hand away with a wince and frown at the blood on his fingers.

"Let me see," she said. Quickly, she checked his head through the bloody hair until she found the source - a piece of shrapnel embedded in his scalp. "We better leave it until we have DeVries to take care of it properly," she decided. She eyed his back - anywhere not protected by his vest was covered in small cuts and bits of embedded shrapnel.

"I'll be fine," he said. "Let me get up and moving."

She said nothing but climbed to her feet, discovering that she hadn't escaped the blast unscathed. The arm, shoulder and leg that hadn't been protected by his body were also riddled with small cuts and shrapnel, and when she stepped forward an extra large piece of shrapnel embedded in her calf made itself known. She stifled a hiss of pain, and couldn't help limping as she stepped forward to offer him a hand up.

He actually accepted her assistance, much to her concern, wincing as he straightened. Awkwardly, she slung his empty quiver and bow over her shoulder. He wobbled and she quickly moved to his side and pulled an arm over her shoulders, grimacing as it ground shrapnel into her own shoulder and tangled briefly with the bow.

"Let's go, Barton," she said. "Our ride's waiting, and the meter's running."

"See? There it is again," he slurred as they started to stagger.

"What?"

"Humour. You do have a sense of humour." He blinked at her fuzzily as they staggered along. "It's nice."

She sighed. "You definitely have a concussion."

He grinned smugly. "And I just won the betting pool. Chang and Sitwell owe me fifty bucks."

"Shut up and keep walking."

XXXXXXXXXX

"Is that a candy shop over there?" Ramirez asked as he plowed into the final trio of thugs.

"Uh, I dunno. Why?" DeVries asked as he scrambled to catch up.

"Think these assholes would back off long enough for me to go buy some?"

"What?! Are you nuts? Why?"

"It's Emma's birthday on Sunday," Ramirez said sheepishly as he broke an arm.

"Already? That would make her…" DeVries paused as he both calculated time and dodged a kick, then followed up with a right to the jaw. "Holy cow! She's turning five?"

"You forgot, didn't you?" Meier asked over the radio as another crack from her rifle rang out.

"Yeah," Ramirez said with a grunt as he broke his other opponent's jaw. "I thought some of the famous Budapest marzipan or even some turo would be nice."

"Dude, you are such a marshmallow," Meier teased. "An ass-kicking, insane marshmallow, but a marshmallow."

"Hey," DeVries called out, "I see them. Duclos, D'Amato, we're in position to clear the way. Romanoff, Barton, get ready to move!" He squinted, taking a closer look, and suddenly realized that there was a problem. "Ramirez, you okay solo?"

"Of course," Ramirez rumbled, pulling out his shotgun.

DeVries glared at him. "Dude, after all this, _now_ you pull out your gun?" Shaking his head, he holstered his own gun to run back to the struggling assassins. He slung Barton's other arm over his shoulder, relieving some of the pressure on Romanoff. The medic frowned as he scanned their battered faces. "I thought this was supposed to be simple and we weren't needed."

"Yeah, well, we decided we would share with you guys," Barton replied. "We're generous that way. Easier than bringing a shrubbery."

"There they are!" D'Amato and Duclos put on an extra burst of speed to catch up with the trio of struggling agents. "Duclos, watch our backs." His keen eyes saw the limp Romanoff was trying to conceal. "I'll take it from here, Romanoff," he said gently, carefully nudging her aside to pull Barton's arm across his own shoulders. He tapped his earpiece. "Meier, McClennan, we have them and we're on our way."

"On my way, boss," Meier called back.

"Engines going hot," McClennan replied. "Coulson and cargo already aboard."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ramirez charged up the quintet ramp, gun ready, and scanned the interior. McClennan and Coulson froze, calmly stared back at him. "Transport's clear," he announced on his earpiece, nodding in apology to the two agents.

"Nice to see you remember Bogota," Coulson commented.

"Thank-you, sir," Ramirez rumbled. "Excuse me while I wait outside for the rest of the team."

"Understood," Coulson said. As Ramirez turned to leave, "Oh, and Ramirez?" He held up a colourful box tied with ribbon. "I'll put this in your bag. It's for you to give to Emma."

"Marzipan?" Ramirez broke into into a beaming smile. "Thank-you, sir!" There was a definite bounce to his step as he jogged back down the ramp.

"Agent Coulson?" McClennan called. "Director Fury is on the radio asking for an update." Coulson turned back to the cockpit area with a sigh. If only everything could be solved with candy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ramirez winced as he saw Romanoff's limp.

"You can kick my ass extra hard in the gym when we get back," he announced as he scooped her up and ran for the ramp. DeVries and D'Amato lifted Clint up between them and carried him, followed closely by Meier as Duclos provided cover.

"All quiet," Duclos announced.

"McClennan, get us out of here. Back to Berlin base as fast as possible," D'Amato ordered.

"Fast as an unladen sparrow, sir," McClennan replied.

"African or European?" Duclos asked with a smirk.

D'Amato sighed. "I am going to find the person who selected 'The Holy Grail' for movie night and kick his ass."

"Inconceivable!"

"It was likely the same bastard who chose 'The Princess Bride' for the night before. Torture with the comfy chair is too good for him."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Over here," DeVries directed Ramirez and D'Amato. Meier sprang forward to fold down a long bench. After pulling off his vest they proceeded to lay Barton on his front while Ramirez carefully seated Romanoff at the end. "Don't move," DeVries said, glaring at the assassins as he pulled out the quinjet's medkit. He pulled out a roll of bandages and handed them to Ramirez. "Ed, wrap it to immobilize the shrapnel in her calf - I want it dealt with in a proper infirmary. Don't take any crap - you're already doomed to have extra ass-kicking. Barton, I'm going to do the same with your head wound and some of these other pieces in your leg and shoulder. God knows how dirty or deep they are - we won't be long getting to Berlin, and their facilities are better than what I have here." He went to work, rolling his eyes at Barton's grumbling. "If you don't shut up, you'll arrive in Berlin looking like a mummy."

"Could I at least lay on my side?" Barton asked, squirming. "I hate laying on my front."

"Fine, if it shuts you up. Idiot." DeVries started to heavily bandage his right arm. "This arm has fewer holes in it. Try not to lay directly on it. I'll give you a couple of these painkillers-"

"No. No painkillers," Barton gritted, squirming.

"Right," DeVries sighed. "I should be used to you pulling this crap. Let me know if you change your mind." He stood, stretching his back with a painful crack. He nodded to Romanoff as he moved to join the rest of the team at the front of the jet, whispering to her, "See if you can do anything with him." She nodded and pushed herself to her feet.

As he joined the rest of the team at the front of the jet, DeVries looked inquiringly at Coulson as the senior agent listened to Fury on a headset. Coulson, sensing his attention, looked up. DeVries raised his eyebrows in inquiry, a firm, professional set to his face. The senior agent nodded - _I'm fine_ - and waved his hand in dismissal to any concern for his personal well-being. A flash of worry crossed his normally inscrutable face: he gestured with his chin and looked with a frown to the pair at the back, then looked at DeVries with raised eyebrows. A casual gesture from DeVries - _fine_ - eased some of the tension in the senior agent's posture, and he turned his full attention back to Fury's questions.

"So, how about when we get back we go get some brews?" McClennan asked the group at large. "You guys can drink while I show our babes a good time."

D'Amato rolled his eyes. "McClennan, any of the women on this jet could kick your ass and stuff it down your throat before breakfast. Do you have a death wish? 'Cause if you do, let me get out of the way before they deal with you."

"It's just part of my charming personality."

"That's what you call it? No wonder you're a permanent member of the sensitivity classes."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Natasha helped him get settled on his side on the bench, pulled a blanket over him despite his protests - _I'm not a freakin' invalid_ - and checked the bandages as he squirmed uncomfortably. As expected, they were relatively clean, so the wounds were as superficial as she had thought. Painful, but not dangerous. Reaching over to the open medkit, she pulled out the painkillers and handed them to him with a water bottle, scowling at him until he stopped grumbling and swallowed them.

Coulson, finally finished with his report to Fury, strode back to them. "Good to see you made it." To most, he appeared his usual calm self. She could see the relief in his eyes, and the slight relaxing of his shoulders. In a rare public display, he carefully squeezed Clint's shoulder, and physically turned her around to check the shrapnel damage for himself, frowning at her bandaged leg. She endured it silently, as she only would with him, and gave him a small nod of reassurance. "I'm fine," she said patiently. "They'll just have to dig some small stuff out, nothing serious." She seated herself next to Barton, hiding a wince as she gently brushed his hair aside to check the bandages.

"Agent Romanoff, we should start the report now, while details are fresh in your mind," Coulson said, seating himself at the back of the jet, putting his tablet on a small fold-down table. "We need to analyze everything that went wrong today." She obediently left her partner to sit across from him, and started answering questions.

Meier had been watching. She saw how Barton actually accepted painkillers from his partner, how Romanoff's expression softened as she watched her partner, and she saw Coulson watch both of them. She saw the flash of guilt on his face before he called on Romanoff for her report. Casually, she sauntered over to take Romanoff's seat beside Barton.

"Hey, handsome," she said. "Bet you wouldn't have got your ass shot up if you used a real weapon instead of that Robin Hood number that throws sticks."

"Meier, I can hit more with an arrow than you can hit with a bullet - any time, any place."

"I dunno - I've been getting a lot of practice lately. Ten bucks and a round of drinks says you can't beat me any more," she said. She checked - Coulson was tapping at his tablet, asking questions rapidly.

"You're on, Brunhilde," he teased, eyeing her blond braid. He shifted and winced. "Might need to wait a couple of days. You don't want to look bad, losing to someone all bandaged up…"

"Right," she drawled sarcastically. "As if your partner would let you do anything right now. You go anywhere near a shooting range before you heal up and she'll kick both of our asses. If I didn't know she would kill me for it, I would call her the ass-kicking mother hen." She hid a smug smile as the painkillers slowed Barton's reflexes, letting a brief flash of more than respect for his partner show.

Looking over, she saw Romanoff, still talking quietly with Coulson, flick a quick glance over to check her partner as the handler was writing. A pang of envy caught her off guard. "Hang tight, handsome. Your partner'll be back in a minute." She'd never had a chance, had always known it. She hid the ache in her chest with a flirtatious grin as she turned back to Barton. "She'll be finished with Coulson soon. I'll talk to you later." She winked back at him as she strolled over to join Ramirez. Seating herself beside Ramirez, she watched as Romanoff shrugged and gestured in response to a question. Coulson raised a hand to keep her as he wrote more notes on his tablet, and asked another question.

"You know, I'm going to ask if I could do my debriefing interview now," she observed to Ramirez. "Coulson is definitely qualified to accept it, I'll get all of the details while they're fresh in my mind, and it would speed up the post mission stuff so I can start the weekend sooner." She nudged him in the ribs. "You should too. It'll let you get home to prep for Emma's party sooner." The words were accompanied by a significant _look, _then a glance from Romanoff to Barton, then back to him with raised eyebrows.

Ramirez raised his own eyebrows as he followed her gaze. "Yeah, Mary would love it if I got home a bit earlier to help her." As he stood up, he leaned forward with an incongruously gentle smile to whisper, "Marshmallow." As she snorted softly back at him, he turned to Duclos. "Hey Monique, we're going to see if Coulson will do our debrief interviews now so we can get out sooner for the weekend. You wanna come with?" He paused, then added the master stroke. "It would get you home to Cindy faster."

Duclos' expression brightened. "That sounds good." She bounced to her feet to join them as they walked over to Coulson and Romanoff.

"Uh, sir?" Meier asked as Romanoff started to drum her fingers on her thigh at another question.

"Yes, Agent Meier?"

"Some of us were wondering if we could do our debriefing interviews now, so we can get our post mission stuff done sooner."

Coulson blinked in surprise - Bravo Alpha team was notoriously difficult when it came to the bureaucratic needs of SHIELD. "I don't see why not," he said cautiously.

"Great! Ed, you should go first, you've got Emma's party to think about," Meier babbled, shoving him forward. He groaned, but took Romanoff's place across from Coulson as the spy limped back to her seat beside Barton.

Meier watched Romanoff carefully check over her partner, uncharacteristic concern on her face, then settle on the bench next to him. She smiled and winked at Ramirez as he grudgingly answered another question from Coulson. He nodded back, even as he grumbled and complained about the demands of bureaucracy. Meier shifted a fidgeting Duclos to stand with her beside Ramirez' shoulder as they waited their turn. It was mere coincidence that Coulson was no longer able to see his agents as he worked.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

His eyes opened as she settled herself beside his head on the bench. "You done already?"

"Yeah. Ramirez, Duclos and Meier asked to start their debriefing interviews with Phil now so they can get their post-mission business over with sooner." She shrugged. "Ed has his daughter's birthday to get back to, and Monique hasn't seen Cindy in six weeks."

"Wow," he said drowsily. "Never thought I would see the day when this bunch would be eager to do reports." He yawned as the painkillers fully kicked in.

"Get some sleep," she said kindly. "I'll wake you when we get close."

With a sigh, he closed his eyes. As he started to drift off, he heard it again.

"Admit it," he said, opening his eyes again. "The operation was a bust, you were roughed up by the Russian mob, your partner got shot, you and said partner were almost blown up - and you had a great day. _Fun_."

"I wouldn't say that - " she started.

"Tchaikovsky. Waltz of the Flowers. You were humming it again." He snorted. "Hell of a way to find out this is the only way you have fun."

"This is not the only way I have fun," she growled.

"Really?" He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Care to show me?"

"Not if my hair was on fire, Barton," she snorted. "Shut up and rest so I can have some peace." She leaned back and firmly closed her eyes. Only he saw the slight curve to the corner of her mouth.

The Waltz of the Flowers haunted his dreams as he drifted off.


End file.
